CHAPTER XLIII
Wherein we catch a Glimpse of the Benefits that accrue to a Sound Commercial Education
Sir Pompey Malahide’sold rival was in all the agony of writing a letter, and neither Isaac Tankerton Wollup’s fat little hands with the grasping pointed finger-tips, nor his bulky body, nor his spelling, aided too well in the recording of his talents on paper. The company promoter held a cigar between the forefinger and second of the hand that held down the sheet of paper to the desk, and he blew and drew the breath of his body whistling through a thick nose as he snored over his labour:
“Dear Samuel” (he writes to his friend the money-lender at Oxford)—“Nephew Reuben McCubbie whispers me that the old lord has done the handsome thing by the young Baddlesmere cub; and that is as I said it should be. By the Christian gods, I should have been a minor prophet in the clear air of Jerusalem, and might even have got into the Talmud—but we live in dull days. London’s a sooty hole when all is said—even intellect shows dimly, except on the Stock Exchange. Greatness has to bump against the neck of the Anglo-Saxon race before the Anglo-Saxon race sees it. Therefore I am neglected.But I am worried just now with the details of an affair that forces itself upon me even more prominently than my obesity.My great illustrated paper has now been going for nigh six months. All the little pen-and-ink gods of criticism agree that it is the most artistic, the most brilliant, the best produced thing in the market—all agree even more that it has shown up the tawdry vulgarity of Pompey Malahide’s literary debauches. But—it has cost ten thousand pun!!!!! Please note the hysterisks. It’s quite as bad as all that. Not a one of the artists has been paid—nor not a one of the literary gents. I was not born for nothing—nor the bankruptcy laws made to thwart commercial genius. I got them to go in on sharing terms for the first six months—the profit as well as the risk to be theirs instead of going into the pockets of sordid city men. See? I played the full brass band of self-interest to their conceit and greed—which, Samuel, I fear is at the bottom of much human nature, even outside Judea. Well, the trade is a-owing to the harmonious tune of eight thousand pun. And the trade has decided to stop the concern and divide what shilling in the poundage is owing thereto.I am the trade. See?The McCubbie syndicate. See?I don’t appear. See?So don’t you burst into tears for me. I lured the boys with dreams beyond avarice—I showed them Pomp Malahide and the girls driving by! They gave their genius whole—like the gentlemen they are.Well, we have failed to elevate journalism. It must lapse back into its old sordid channels.Meanwhile, I am about to put in a bailiff in the name of the McCubbie printing syndicate upon the carved oak chest in the hall of our superior friend, Bartholomew Doome—that lordly person, being always backed with money in some mysterious way, having confessed, pathetic fact, that he had absolutely no settled income beyond what he makes from year to year by the exercise of his talents. Not that I have anything against the youth—I rather like the Nobs; but them tapestries! real goblins, my boy! they are mine.... And the pictures! Bouchers are running into five figures at the sale-rooms; Samuel, they are mine. And as for the Watteau—what ho!Andthe Adams and Chippendale and Louis furniture and the whole splendid treasure! You could almost kiss it, Samuel—well, I think that we are going to get our eight thousand back, God be praised. But it will be the Sabbath in seven minutes, so I must cease from honest labour—and I prepare to do so in a reverent spirit, for it is one of the brightest Friday afternoons I have spent since you and me played marbles in the Minories.God be merciful to you a sinner.Yours, in the plentitude of my powers,I. Tankerton Wollup.”
“Dear Samuel” (he writes to his friend the money-lender at Oxford)—“Nephew Reuben McCubbie whispers me that the old lord has done the handsome thing by the young Baddlesmere cub; and that is as I said it should be. By the Christian gods, I should have been a minor prophet in the clear air of Jerusalem, and might even have got into the Talmud—but we live in dull days. London’s a sooty hole when all is said—even intellect shows dimly, except on the Stock Exchange. Greatness has to bump against the neck of the Anglo-Saxon race before the Anglo-Saxon race sees it. Therefore I am neglected.
But I am worried just now with the details of an affair that forces itself upon me even more prominently than my obesity.
My great illustrated paper has now been going for nigh six months. All the little pen-and-ink gods of criticism agree that it is the most artistic, the most brilliant, the best produced thing in the market—all agree even more that it has shown up the tawdry vulgarity of Pompey Malahide’s literary debauches. But—it has cost ten thousand pun!!!!! Please note the hysterisks. It’s quite as bad as all that. Not a one of the artists has been paid—nor not a one of the literary gents. I was not born for nothing—nor the bankruptcy laws made to thwart commercial genius. I got them to go in on sharing terms for the first six months—the profit as well as the risk to be theirs instead of going into the pockets of sordid city men. See? I played the full brass band of self-interest to their conceit and greed—which, Samuel, I fear is at the bottom of much human nature, even outside Judea. Well, the trade is a-owing to the harmonious tune of eight thousand pun. And the trade has decided to stop the concern and divide what shilling in the poundage is owing thereto.
I am the trade. See?
The McCubbie syndicate. See?
I don’t appear. See?
So don’t you burst into tears for me. I lured the boys with dreams beyond avarice—I showed them Pomp Malahide and the girls driving by! They gave their genius whole—like the gentlemen they are.
Well, we have failed to elevate journalism. It must lapse back into its old sordid channels.
Meanwhile, I am about to put in a bailiff in the name of the McCubbie printing syndicate upon the carved oak chest in the hall of our superior friend, Bartholomew Doome—that lordly person, being always backed with money in some mysterious way, having confessed, pathetic fact, that he had absolutely no settled income beyond what he makes from year to year by the exercise of his talents. Not that I have anything against the youth—I rather like the Nobs; but them tapestries! real goblins, my boy! they are mine.... And the pictures! Bouchers are running into five figures at the sale-rooms; Samuel, they are mine. And as for the Watteau—what ho!Andthe Adams and Chippendale and Louis furniture and the whole splendid treasure! You could almost kiss it, Samuel—well, I think that we are going to get our eight thousand back, God be praised. But it will be the Sabbath in seven minutes, so I must cease from honest labour—and I prepare to do so in a reverent spirit, for it is one of the brightest Friday afternoons I have spent since you and me played marbles in the Minories.
God be merciful to you a sinner.
Yours, in the plentitude of my powers,I. Tankerton Wollup.”
When, in the early morning, Fluffy Reubens, yawning in a loose dressing-gown as he shuffled along muttering guttural curses at the violent ringing of the bell, opened the outer door of Doome’s studio, and thrust out a tousled head, a melancholy man came in with the milk, walked gloomily to the oak chest in the hall, and took possession.
Fluffy Reubens shut the door, went over to the seated man, and, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his dressing-gown, and straddling out his legs, stood and gazed at him:
“Whee-hee-hewy-hewy-hewy!” whistled he.
The cadaverous sickly-looking fellow on the oak chest, watching him suspiciously out of anxious eyes, searched in the breast pocket of his dingy coat, and handed him a sheet of blue paper.
Fluffy Reubens kicked it out of his hand; and the sickly person ducked his head and raised a defensive elbow:
“Chuck it, guv’nor,” he said hoarsely—and coughed.
“Don’t talk slang!” said Fluffy Reubens. “What’s your name?”
“Sickers,” said the sickly person.
“Who gave you that name?”
“What are yer gettin’ at, guv’nor?”
“Well, look here, Sick Horse——” “By thunder, sick-horse is good.” And he added: “Who are you?”
“A bailiff, sir.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I am.”
“Well?”
“I’m getting used to shame, guv’nor.” The man was seized with a fit of coughing.
“You look beastly nervous, Sick-horse. You’d think I was going to kick you from behind.”
Sickers sighed gloomily:
“The last gentleman did,” he said hoarsely; and added, with a dry throat: “It’s a very assailable calling, sir.”
“Look here, Sick-horse,” said Reubens—“I want you to go out and send a telegram for me.”
“Oh, no, you don’t, guv’nor.” The man smiled cunningly, laughing a husky laugh.
“Why not?”
“Well—yer see, guv’nor—when I’ve got my back on a oak chest—well—I know where I are.”
Reubens laughed loud and long:
“You ass,” roared he—“I’ve only got slippers on.”
“I’d rather not, guv’nor—if yer don’t mind.”
Fluffy Reubens gazed at him:
“Sick-horse,” said he, “don’t move. I’ll be back again in a minute. Stay like that for awhile—you look terrific in that light—sort of Judas Iscariot in the gloom wishing to God he hadn’t taken the money.”
He strolled off into the great studio and returned with a canvas and painting materials, and a large yellow official paper. He put the things on the floor, drew up a chair, and, shading his eyes with his hand, tried several views of the uncomfortable man.
Sitting down at last, he began rapidly, with swift telling strokes of colour, to sketch in an impression of the dejected figure before him where he sat in the deep shadows of the ill-lit place.
“By the way, Sick-horse,” said he—“I suppose I must put you down in the census-paper—you are going to stay the night, of course.”
“Ye—yes, sir,” said the man.
“So am I—Mr. Doome has lent me his studio, so let us begin. We’ve got your name and your calling. Are you of unsound mind?”
The man laughed huskily:
“You needn’t put it at that, sir,” said he.
“You’ve got a fizzing fine suicidal look on you, when you don’t smile, Sick-horse,” said Fluffy, painting away. “I’ve been pining for a good Judas Iscariot for years.... Don’t shiftmore than you can help.... Oh, about the census. Are you married?”
The pale-faced man nodded gloomily—he was.
“Tut, tut! How dreadful!” said Fluffy. “No wonder you’re ashamed of yourself. What’s become of the wife?”
“She’s alive,” he said gloomily.
Fluffy Reubens coughed:
“No luck,” said he. “Any children?”
“Fourteen.”
“Good God!” said Fluffy Reubens.
“I don’t always think so, guv’nor,” said the melancholy figure from the shadows.
Reubens painted in silence for a long time. At last he got up and looked keenly at the man:
“Empty?” he asked.
The bailiff nodded—yes, he was very empty—he was always empty—he was used to it.
“Look here, Sick-horse, you look so damn dramatic I must not put anything into you for half an hour yet—I haven’t quite finished. But after that we’ll have breakfast, eh?”
The man smiled.
Fluffy Reubens jumped up, upsetting his canvas:
“For God’s sake, don’t do that!” cried he anxiously; “or we’re lost.... Quick! think of something else—think the coffee’s burnt—think the eggs are addled——”
He flung down his brush:
“Damnation! Judas Iscariot is dead,” he said.
He went to the hall-door, bawled for the woman who looked after the house, and ordered breakfast from an eating-house close by:
“For two,” he called.
He gathered up the painting things sadly, to carry them into the great studio.
The gloomy man on the oak chest coughed:
“I’m real sorry, guv’nor; I’ll try the God-forsaken lay again,” said the wretched man huskily; “but I wish to God you hadn’t mentioned them sausages.”
“No,” said Fluffy Reubens—“it would never be the same thing—and I haven’t the heart to kick you—even if it brought back Judas Iscariot.”
Later in the morning, Fluffy Reubens wrote a telegram to Bartholomew Doome:
“Bailiff in possession. Order a supper for about thirty here this evening. Whisk round London in cab and make all the boys come to an orgy. The bailiff looks ripping in that gorgeous livery out of your property wardrobe. The shoes do not fit, but his elastic-sided boots look stunning quaint at the end of the white stockings. Was afraid I’d never get his feet through the legs of the red plush breeches. I will do the rest.Fluffy.”
“Bailiff in possession. Order a supper for about thirty here this evening. Whisk round London in cab and make all the boys come to an orgy. The bailiff looks ripping in that gorgeous livery out of your property wardrobe. The shoes do not fit, but his elastic-sided boots look stunning quaint at the end of the white stockings. Was afraid I’d never get his feet through the legs of the red plush breeches. I will do the rest.
Fluffy.”
He wrote another to Rippley.